


Good Omens: Let's Easygoingness

by Suvroc (cuteandillusion)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Podfic Length: 0-10 Minutes, Short & Sweet, ok to podfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-19 23:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21927907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuteandillusion/pseuds/Suvroc
Summary: Collection of one-shot fluff and nonsense originally posted to my GO Tumblr account.1. Home Cooking: Script for a scene in which Aziraphale attempts to make Extremely Easy Old Fashion Beef Stew from Laurie Colwin's famous book of food essays.2. Marvelous Night for a Moondance: A couple dancing in the back garden of their cottage in the South Downs, late autumn.3.  Subluxation Sigil: Crowley receives a minor chiropractic adjustment. He repays Aziraphale’s manipulation in kind.4. Ritz Hair: Inspired by the post wondering how in the world Crowley's hair got so mussed up in that final scene at the Ritz.5. Yes But What Does the A Stand For?: Aziraphale gets a passport and has to declare what the A. in A.Z.Fell stands for.*6. Aziraphale Gets a Cellphone: Crowley gives Aziraphale an unwanted gift.*7. Fly Me To The Moon: On the 220th anniversary of the bookshop, Crowley broods.8.  Red Touch Yellow: Why do they always have conversations like this doing 90 down the M25? (NOW WITH PODFIC!)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 52
Kudos: 130





	1. Home Cooking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Here is the whole recipe](https://books.google.com/books?id=yummBAAAQBAJ&pg=PT16&lpg=PT16&dq=laurie+colwin%27s++%E2%80%9CFor+two+people+I+suggest+two+and+a+half+pounds+of+stewing+beef.%E2%80%9D&source=bl&ots=H3DF80aOfh&sig=ACfU3U0sqERgn9DVKcvn0OV5MNLhgF7kJg&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjD_OTvo83mAhVCHs0KHaVoDmkQ6AEwAHoECAoQAQ#v=onepage&q=laurie%20colwin's%20%20%E2%80%9CFor%20two%20people%20I%20suggest%20two%20and%20a%20half%20pounds%20of%20stewing%20beef.%E2%80%9D&f=false) if you'd like it.  

> 
> [I MADE THE RECIPE](https://twitter.com/BowieKansai/status/1344838064401768449?s=20) for New Year's Eve 2020.

**Aziraphale**

Please! If you are not going to be helpful, then I beg you to vacate the kitchen.

**Crowley**

_(Slithering around underfoot, getting in the way of everything – in human form, but slithering none the less.)_

I don’t understand why you’re so dead set on cooking when there are restaurants.

**Aziraphale**

I found this lovely book that was such a joy to read I was inspired to try my hand.

_(Flexes fingers. Drops wooden spoon.)_

**Crowley**

_(Eyeroll)_

If your cooking is anything like your magic…

**Aziraphale**

_ (Takes book from counter and shoves it at Crowley)_

Here. If you insist upon remaining, at least read the recipe out to me. 

_(He picks up the wooden spoon and proceeds to wash it.) _

__

**Crowley**

__

“…fo spunod flah a pua omt tseggns I eldoed omt roF”

__

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**Aziraphale**

__

_ (Pauses, confused for a moment, then dries his hands.)_

__

Right-side up, please.

__

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**Crowley**

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_ (Grumbles, flipping book around)_

__

…you’re no fun… “For two people I suggest two and a half pounds of stewing beef.” That seems a hell of a lot.

__

__

**Aziraphale**

__

I already have that – skip ahead to step 5.

__

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**Crowley**

__

Uh….. “olive oil….” erm, “Put half the meat into a deep casserole…” So you already have a casserole? Why don’t you just eat that? Boom. Done.

__

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**Aziraphale**

__

Well it’s also the name of a type of pan. From the French I would imagine.

__

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**Crowley**

__

Why’d the French have to have a different word for everything?

__

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**Aziraphale**

__

Just read on!

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**Crowley**

__

“Sprinkle with two cloves of chopped garlic.

__

_(Sighs.)_

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Addonecarrotscrapedcutintochunksoneonion quartered (one quarter stuck with two cloves)…” cloves? But you just chopped those.

__

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**Aziraphale**

__

Clove as in the spice.

__

_(Busies himself completing the instructions)_

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Rather fantastic don’t you think that here we are in 2019 using ingredients I enjoyed with Pliny all those years ago. Such a super writer, Pliny!

__

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**Crowley**

__

Sure. Stick twigs in onions. Er…. “add everything else. Then pour one cup of red wine.”

__

_(Tosses book.)_

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Now we’re talking!

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**Aziraphale**

__

It does not say “add everything else.”

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**Crowley**

__

_ (Pours himself a glass of 2015 Willamette Valley Pinot Noir.)_

__

A Wise One once said: Cooking it is a crime to good wine. I’m going to check on the plants. Yell if you need anything.

__

_(Saunters out.)_

__

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**Aziraphale**

__

_ (Exasperated but thankful, Aziraphale finishes up constructing the dish, pretty much dumping everything into the casserole and ignoring the recipe. Mumbling.)_

__

Who said cooking was a crime…

__

_(pours his own glass of wine, which he immediately downs)_

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…mmm!

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**Crowley**

__

_ (From the other room.)_

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It was me! I said that!

__

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**Aziraphale**

__

I know, Crowley.

__


	2. Marvelous night for a Moondance.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (inspired by @mdccc-lexicon-lxxvi ‘s [Two Celestial Beings Dancing, 1984](https://mdccc-lexicon-lxxvi.tumblr.com/post/186472407426/two-celestial-beings-dancing-1984-inspired-by))

Aziraphale glanced up from his wine. They’d been sitting on the bench in the back garden, watching day turn to night as the sky, resplendent with swiftly tilting clouds, drifted to darkness. “Sorry?”

“Let’s dance.”

“Oh. Oh! I well, I couldn’t. I don’t…”

Crowley hushed him and reached out, taking his wine from his hand and setting it down on the grass. From the interior of the cottage, it wasn’t Van Morrison but something older, softer, pouring forth from the Victrola. He slid their hands together and pulled him to his feet, then slowly took him in his arms. Aziraphale made some half-hearted protests, but Crowley began to sway and eventually, the other leaned his head against his chest and let the music overtake them.

Aziraphale relaxed into his arms, and Crowley pulled him closer. After a moment, feeling the dark surround them, he allowed his wings to unfurl, each oil-black feather outstretched and pointed. Then, he curled them downward, shading the passing moonlight from Aziraphale’s eyes, shadowing him in their protection. Aziraphale looked up, smiled, and released his own, calm and comfortable and gently folded behind him. For a brief, beautiful moment, Crowley could think of nothing better.

Then, as is the way of the world, the song ended, the moon dipped behind a passing cloud, and a gust of wind, holding the icicle-breath of the change of the season, made them shutter.

“It can’t last forever, I guess,” Crowley said, realizing too soon he had spoken out loud.

“What?” Aziraphale asked, looking up, dreamy-eyed in his embrace.

“The warm nights of autumn,” he postulated. Then, “no spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.”

Aziraphale brightened. “John Donne! I thought you said you didn’t read books.”

“I didn’t. I mean, I don’t. I do go to poetry readings. Er. Used to. Back when that was the thing.”

“Why have you not said?”

“You never asked.”

Aziraphale squinted at him. Crowley inhaled deeply the scent of the night: of bruised leaves and dampened soil. Of the ice-touched air, and limestone, and the dying grass. And cocoa and old books and feathers and heaven.

“Let’s go to bed,” he whispered.

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale sighed.


	3. Subluxation Sigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Few but those who have them understand that wings connect in the front of the body and not the back.
> 
> \--
> 
> Crowley receives a minor chiropractic adjustment.  
He repays Aziraphale's manipulation in kind.

Few but those who have them understand that wings connect in the front of the body and not the back.

Aziraphale found this out early on in his military medical training, and devoted himself for a time to the understanding of ethereal anatomy to learn just how everything fit together. Like the distribution of celestial wages, or the tactics of heavenly warfare, it was part science and part belief. But what he found was that, if a creature with wings was a bit out of sorts, one of the first methods of simple treatment would be what was coined Carinac Massage, or Heavenly Bodywork.

He had never seen someone more out of alignment than Anthony J. Crowley.

Which was to be expected – Crowley being a fallen angel, and the system Aziraphale knew having been developed in Heaven. Maybe Hell had its own methods of Satanic Chiropracty. Infernal Osteopathy or the like… but he doubted it.

The question was how to get him to submit to an adjustment. Aziraphale, being a bit of a bastard, decided just not to ask.

One of the first tentative breeches of the protective shell each had surrounded themselves with for 6,011 years happened the night of the non-pocalypse. Aziraphale had taken Crowley's hand on the bus to Oxford which found itself inexplicably delivering them to Crowley's building in London. Crowley had not let go. Not even when they got to the building and had a short discussion with the doorman.

That night, as they found themselves side by side in Crowley's bed, Aziraphale had reached over and laid his hand on the demon’s sternum, that pointed bony expanse that so looked in need of a warm soft caress.

Eventually, much later on, he was able to touch the skin of Crowley’s chest, and he began the light manipulation which comprised Carinac Massage, trailing his pointer and little fingers extended to touch each side, down the length of his keel, letting them conjoin at the base, and then running them back up. He felt for the strum of a heartbeat which, knowing how Crowley usually went (as he called it) Wholly Human (as opposed to only just a guise or a glamour, which actually would have been a bit of a stretch for a true form that followed the shape of a snake), he presumed would be there. Sure enough it was, and he felt a searing heat, felt the flame, but he did not draw his hand away. The flame had to be connected to something, and for Crowley, unsurprisingly, it was attached to Hell. To his Fall. To fear and hate and frustration. To an exploding Bentley.

A burning bookshop.

“Mmrph. What’ryou doing?” Crowley asked.

“It’s ah, massage. Just try to relax.”

Aziraphale felt it in his temples: the ache, the pounding. It was more than he had expected really, and protectively he wrapped his divine light around this angry painful flame and tried to adjust it somewhat. To lean it towards something positive, something freeing, cleansing. He thought of humans harnessing fire – holding it in their homes in candles and hearths. In their pockets in the form of matches and lighters. Using it to bend metal to their will. And – smiling – he thought of uisge-beatha – aqua vitae – the water of life – humankind’s creation of fire in liquid form. It was this he placed within Crowley’s heart with a shining devotion.

At the very end, as a seal, he locked it with the sideways figure eight.

Crowley's eyes shot open.

“What did you just do?”

“What?”

“That was a sigil angel.”

“I don't know what you are talking about. Sigils are occult symbols. I merely performed an adjustment.”

“You know the ouroboros is mine right? You may think your lemniscate lock - and yes, I know that's what it was - you may think it's unbreakable, but I have control over it.”

“But of course my dear. How do you feel? Did that feel good?”

Crowley sat up. And bedamned if his shoulders held straighter, his curving spine a bit less curvy. He took a breath, and Aziraphale smiled, as he seemed to be able to fill his lungs for the first time fully in thousands of years. A look of surprise passed over his face and a small, “huh” escaped his lips.

Aziraphale could not withhold a wiggle.

“But you should have asked. Don't do it again.”

“I apologize.”

“Huh. Easier to ask forgiveness, eh?” Crowley said without malice, stretching one arm, and then the other, rolling his shoulders.

“Would you have let me otherwise?”

Crowley grumbled and put his fingertips gently to his own chest. “No probably not.”

“You said yourself you can unlock it if you wish. I will not be offended. I only wanted to do something to help.”

The demon was quiet as he gazed inward, then, after a moment’s introspection, he licked his lips. His eyes widened and slid to the side to meet Aziraphale’s.

“You… you burned away hellfire with… Scotch?”

And without waiting for an answer, his hot mouth was upon the angel.

\---

Time passed, and eventually they found themselves again lying coolly in the darkness, Crowley’s arms wrapped around Aziraphale’s bare chest.

“You know what you did, what with the wing thing?

“The what?”  
  
“That sigil.”

“Adjustment.”

“Yeah that. Can I do one for you as well?”

Aziraphale looked at him. He wanted to agree immediately, but his truer nature betrayed him and he hesitated.

“If not I understand,” Crowley said, his eyes steady.

“No it's not that, I mean yes. Yes. It's just that er. I mean…”

“Angel.”

Crowley took his shoulder and stared into his eyes. Aziraphale was never sure if he was trying to or not, but his hypnotizing sway always seemed to be there. “Do you trust me”

“I trust you to the ends of the earth. Literally.”

Crowley nodded then, and slid his hand down to rest heavily against Aziraphale’s sternum. To touch the bit of him at the point where his ribs connected. He flattened his palm against the bone.

“I'm not doing exactly the same thing, but I do know a thing or two about keeling.”

“Keeling,” Aziraphale murmured. “I've never heard it called that, what a lovely turn of phrase.”

“…old terminology. Now shut up and close your eyes, I need to concentrate.”

Aziraphale did as directed. Crowley’s lovely fingers danced over his chest, painting lines in a spiderweb. Eventually, he felt a glow enfold his heart. He knew what sat there. There was no way anything a demon could do would quench the burning of his angelic heart, which existed, even when he could not retrieve it, as a flaming blade. But what Crowley was doing was different. Gentle. Less of an adjustment, more soothing. It radiated out and down his wings, down every feather to the very tip.

“Oh!”

“What, not good?

“Oh no, it’s wonderful. Like the warmest blanket. Or, mm, the most wonderful desert at the Ritz!”

“Hm. Best not to hyperbolize. Hush up. I'm almost finished.”

He didn't draw the figure eight or the ouroboros, but held all four of his fingers lightly at the center, then drew lines radiating outwards. Aziraphale shivered.

Crowley dropped his head to touch foreheads and smiled. “Hope you like it.”

Aziraphale lay still and put his hand to his heart. He could sense sweetness, over everything else, with a tang so hot it was burnt to bitter, glass-crisp. The corners of his mouth curled upwards. 

“You old serpent,” he sighed as he saw the vision of a Trinity Cream – a crème brûlée pudding with a caramelized top, branded, not with a coat of arms, but with the curling sigil of the snake.


	4. Ritz Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [ this post ](https://skyfall-good-omens.tumblr.com/post/189899793648/crowleys-hair-in-the-final-scene-at-the-ritz) about how Crowley's hair appears a right mess at the end while they are dining at the Ritz.

“Temptation accomplished,” Aziraphale said, wiggling unconsciously before standing to follow Crowley across the park. He blinked a miracle – just a small one – and mentioned offhandedly, “what about the Ritz? I do believe a table for two has just miraculously become free.”

“Ah!” said Crowley with a lilt in his voice.

They moseyed across the lawn, without a care, without speaking. The world had reset, and it was as wondrous as always. Aziraphale was distracted first by the sky. What a beautiful color! That strange mix of yellow and cream that somehow blended into mute blue and orange. How was that even possible? He watched as a flock of pigeons circled them in a murmuration, shifting like the wind.

They ambled on under the delicately shuttering leaves of a maple tree. With every step, feeling the years of dirt and gravel and cobblestone and cement layered beneath their feet. Around them, everywhere, life. Humans milling about. Going about the afternoon. Angry or ecstatic, or bored or triumphant. Every moment a gift. Every small expression of existence all but overwhelming because it was still here.

Aziraphale loved every second. He drank it in. He soaked in the happiness. Unbidden, adrift in his own thoughts, he glanced to his left. 

Crawley sauntered, in the most exquisite expression of the word*. His chin was tilted upwards, his legs crisscrossing languidly with every stride. Aziraphale had to admit that, throughout their long and sometimes sordid history, he had not failed to recognize the demon’s innate hypnotic attraction. Well, what was one to expect from a tempter? Not that every guise had been a hit (those ringlets in France, good lord, or that stint in the 1980s), but this current incarnation though, he had to admit, was fairly perfection, at least where Aziraphale was concerned.

“You see something you like, angel?” Crowley said as an aside, not moving his head. Aziraphale blushed and looked away.

“I’m simply reveling in the existence of the world is all,” he said.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, and the smile remained in his voice.

They slipped into a comfortable silence, which was surprising in its own way. For so long they had relied on each other’s banter, the chattiness that would surround them whenever they got together. It was expected, soothing even. But now – with the apocalypse averted, this quiet between them felt somehow even more right. The cacophony of the street filled the space with its honking horns, the squeal of tires, the reassuring roar of engines. Everything felt proper. Back the way it should be.

Ahead of them, Aziraphale could just spy the entry to the Ritz, and he picked up his pace slightly in anticipation. As he did so, though, he realized that Crowley had stopped walking, standing still in the middle of the pavement. He turned to confront him when the demon, oddly, snapped time still.

Aziraphale backtracked and approached him questioningly. “What is it?”

Crowley did not move, but just as his inactivity started to cause Aziraphale concern, he spoke.

“I like going out to eat with you.”

“Well, why, yes,”_ What a strange thing to say!_, he thought. “So do I. I mean that is where we are headed.” He smiled warmly and gestured towards the Ritz.

“No,” the demon said, and his voice had, changed. Lower. More introspective. “I mean yes, but not just that. I just wanted to say, I really like going to eat… with you.” He moved his head in a thoughtful swoop to aim his shaded gaze at Aziraphale. “I like you.”

Aziraphale felt his hands draw together, wringing a bit in front of the worn front of his waistcoat. He glanced to each side of himself, taking in the fact that yes, the street was in fact frozen around him. “I…” he started, and was struck by the fact that he was utterly unsure as to how to progress.

He had said some… horrible things to Crowley. He had wanted for so long to apologize for a multitude of indiscretions, but the most recent betrayal was the freshest wound. And if truly he no longer had a side, then, well, he felt he owed it to his friend to clear the air.

“I…” he started again, “I hope that my actions have helped to alleviate any doubt my misguided words may have produced.”

Crowley bobbed his head once, hesitated, then said, “what?”

Aziraphale worked his hands together tighter. _Oh bother._ “I mean, I’m sorry. I told you before I didn’t like you. I didn’t mean it.”

“Oh, that,” Crowley said and shook his head. “Good. No problem. I know.” He took a step forward, at the same time appearing ever so bold, yet hesitant somehow. The way he held his shoulders high, his fingers dug deep into his pockets. Aziraphale stared at him as he approached. Specifically, at a part of him slightly above his chin, and below his nose. When Crowley spoke, it was as if his words came from another world altogether. “I want to kiss you.”

The angel’s heart thumped. His entire being – his earthly form, his inner self, whatever he was and however he existed - stopped. For a very long time he processed what had just been presented to him. At a certain point, good manners made him attempt to say something, but Crowley held up a hand.

“I know. It’s why I paused time.” He shoved the hand back into his pocket. He was willing to wait.

Aziraphale said, very quietly, the thing that passed through his mind every time he dared let his thoughts wander to such inclinations.

“That would change things, you realize.”

Crowley shrugged. “Things change.”

He saw Crowley’s eyebrows raise over his glasses in expectation of an answer.

Part of him wanted to rail against the demon for being so unfair – even the voicing of such a thing in the frozen space between them had moved the needle inexorably past the critical point of unspoken, agreed-upon comfort. Part of him wanted to laugh it off, as so often they did when things became a bit too tense. Yet another part wanted to pretend it didn’t matter, pretend that nothing had changed, and demand that the dear boy simply stop being ridiculous and get on with the day.

But none of those parts of Aziraphale ended up having any say in the matter.

“Alright.”

The air around them seemed to hum slightly as Crowley, his companion on Earth for 6,000 years, gave no immediately reaction. Then he moved - in that smooth, sly, easy way he did, flowing closer to him, then orbiting in a slow and measured pace an ever-tightening circle around him. Aziraphale could feel his eyes on him as he completed his circuit, Crowley coming to rest standing face-to-ever-so-close-face with him. Aziraphale felt his cheeks grow hot, his heart pound as if to leave his chest, dash it all, but he couldn’t find the strength at that moment to augment these infernal human reactions. 

Crowley reached with his right hand and ran it up Aziraphale’s cheek. He would have closed his eyes to concentrate on the feeling if he wasn’t so focused at not missing what was directly before him. Leaving etiquette in the dust, he watched. He knew Crowley almost as he knew himself, he realized. The sharp edges of his jaw, the fine lines around his mouth, his warm breath and his hidden eyes. Knew his humor and his anger, his buried emotions and his brash exterior. He yes, knew his smell - of leather and smoke, and he knew there were still secrets he didn’t know.

Like the way it would feel when he ran warm fingers over his temples to brush a wisp of hair over his ear. Like how patiently he’d leaned in, with a little tilt to his head, to hover a mere wren's-breath from Aziraphale’s lips. And how gently and effortlessly he closed that final gap and kissed him slow and soft, like clouds. Or snow.

Aziraphale felt blessed.

“You know I’ve thought about that?” Crowley whispered, like a feather brushing through the air, “You. What you’ve done to me.”

“My darling,” Aziraphale said, not really caring for words at the moment and drawing him back in. He spread his hands wide over Crowley’s back as he pulled him into another kiss. His hands ran over the tightness of his shoulders, up the nape of his neck, through Crowley’s hair, dancing across his scalp until any remaining tenseness in the demon melted into a moan.

That moan was the sweetest thing the angel had ever tasted.

It was like the crack of dawn. A shooting star. Like the snap of a delicate biscuit. And Aziraphale consumed it and was desperate for more. Their bodies clutched together, Crowley breathing heavily as he kissed down the side of Aziraphale’s face, down the slope of his neck, nestling his nose into the space between his collar bone and shoulder. And they held each other. 

“Supposed we’d better get a move on,” Crowley mumbled finally.

“Mmmm, yes,” Aziraphale mused. “Possibly to be continued after lunch?” He gazed at him and furrowed his brow. “Oh my dear, your hair!” He reached to attempt to brush the wild ruddy mess back into some sort of shape, but Crowley stopped him.

“Leave it,” he said, “I think I like it this way.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *[Footnote](https://vault.sierraclub.org/john_muir_exhibit/life/palmer_sauntering.aspx): (Spoken of John Muir, founder of the Sierra Club, in 1911) His blue eyes flashed, and with his Scotch accent he replied: “…People ought to saunter in the mountains - not hike! Do you know the origin of that word ‘saunter?’ It’s a beautiful word. Away back in the Middle Ages people used to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and when people in the villages through which they passed asked where they were going, they would reply, "A la sainte terre,’ 'To the Holy Land.’ And so they became known as sainte-terre-ers or saunterers. Now these mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not 'hike’ through them.


	5. Yes, but what does the “A.” stand for?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I decided to post some ficlits that are part of [ "The Harrowing of Hell"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23147488/chapters/55397680), since they are of a lower rating than the actual piece. This is the first of those in which Aziraphale needs to pick a new name.

It had been Crowley’s idea, after they survived heaven and hell’s assassination attempts, to take a trip. _Get out of Dodge_, is what he had said, meaning leave London. Out of England. Ostensibly to restock Aziraphale’s wine cellar.

“Eleven years and one averted apocalypse later has left you woefully unprepared, alcohol-ly speaking, to have me as a visitor,” he’d smirked the next morning, after they spent the night sprawled and clutching each other on Aziraphale’s bookstore sofa. “And you’re right about keeping a low profile and not working miracles for a bit, so we’re going to have to do it the hard way.”

“You mean walk down to Sainsbury’s?”

“I mean, we need to get you a passport.”

And so had begun the Preparations – getting Aziraphale legitimate human documentation. He wasn’t sure how Crowley achieved all that he did without a tiny miracle or two, but he seemed confident. Not that there wasn’t the odd hiccup or two. 

“You need a name, Angel. One that doesn’t draw attention, so your true name is right out.”

“Really now. I’ve used this name in the past.”

“With ethereal help no doubt.” Well. He couldn’t argue with that. “How about Arnold. Good old Arnie?”*

Aziraphale pulled a face.

“No? What else we got? Alexander?” He tilted his head. “No, you don’t look like him.”

“Please. Is this absolutely necessary?” he asked, feeling quite put on the spot for not ever actually deciding on a human name in the past.

“Albert. Could call you Al?”

Aziraphale stood and began pacing. “Do we need to do this right now? Couldn’t I have some time to think?”

“You’ve only had since the beginning of time. And really, it’s no big a deal. We just need something for the forms.”

“What about… what if I just say the A is for Anthony.”

Crowley’s face contorted, eventually landing in a lopsided barely-grin. “Taking my name already, are you?”

“Well,” he said nervously. Why was he nervous? “Sharing it.”

“Not that I mind,” Crowley said, his tone mellow, “’Cuz I don’t. It just might cause a bit of confusion is my only concern. Maybe, I don’t know, something bookish?”

“Bookish?”

“An author or something?” He gestured around the shop.

“Ah,” Aziraphale’s eyes darted about. Nearest where he was standing was the area he kept the childrens’ and historically young persons’ books. He let his fingers touch the spines of T.H. White’s original series of novels – Sword in the Stone, The Witch in the Wood…. four books which were eventually published together as The Once and Future King. For a moment he considered “Arthur,” but quickly dismissed it. Having served on the court, and in direct opposition of the infamous Black Knight (who now lounged amicably nearby, tapping digits into the GOV.UK website for him), that name might be a bit too weighty to carry. He did not want to appear to be putting on airs.

Browsing up a few shelves, his eyes landed upon an American novel he knew quite well. It was as pure and true a construction of humankind as any other book in his shop – filled with heroism and strength, sadness and confusion, and, in the current time, quite prone to cause debate as to its historical place and problematic depictions of the past.** It was everything the written word was created to be. 

“Atticus,” he said.

“Atticus?”

“It means, _From Athens_. More or less.”

“Well yes, I know that. Still a little odd.” Crowley took a breath. “Atticus Fell.” 

And so it was done. They determined that the “Z” was just a “Z” really (although Crowley did put up a good fight trying to get him to say it stood for “Zaphod”***). 

\--

* [Ace?](https://youtu.be/BpVRZK1qok0?t=623)

** [This book was still being debated in 2019.](https://www.history.com/news/why-to-kill-a-mockingbird-keeps-getting-banned)

*** [**I'm** a **really** terrific and **great guy**.](https://pics.me.me/he-had-rather-liked-zaphod-beeblebrox-in-a-strange-sort-49823378.png)


	6. Aziraphale gets a cellphone...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I decided to post some ficlits that are part of[ "The Harrowing of Hell"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23147488/chapters/55397680), since they are of a lower rating than the actual piece. This is the second of those in which Crowley gives Aziraphale an unwanted gift.

Crowley reached into his pocket and withdrew a small black rectangle. Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“All part of the Preparations! I’m not going anywhere without a way to get a hold of you.”

“But you’ll be with me!”

“Not every second,” he huffed. “I have it all set up,” he said, setting the cellphone down next to the passport. “It’s very simple, but I need to show you.”

Aziraphale eyed the cellphone like it was a bomb about to go off. His raised his eyes to Crowley’s sunglasses with a resigned sigh.

“Come on. It’s not so bad,” Crowley drawled, leaning in on his elbows and taking out his own phone. “We’ll practice,”

_We again._ Aziraphale had to say something. The tone of the demon’s voice, the tenderness, had struck him like a blow.

“Why are you being so patient with me?” he asked.

Crowley tilted his head. Leveled his covered eyes at him.

There was a word that didn’t pass between them. A strong, powerful, heavy word that they felt, but had never spoken to each other, about each other. It carried too much baggage. They had taken to expressing it through actions. It felt safer. Crowley set down his own phone and made a beckoning motion with his finger. Aziraphale warily presented his hand and Crowley took it. (Touches were getting more and more frequent as well. Hand-touches, hand holding, a careful stroke of the pad of one’s thumb to the tendons on the back of the other’s hand. All things they had purposely avoided, unless cultural norms dictated otherwise, throughout the millennia. It was… nice.)

“I just want you to know, “ Crowley said calmly, gently, “that inside… I am screaming. You are a pain in the arse, and I’m mostly doing this for the wine.” Aziraphale was pretty sure he winked behind those dark glasses. “Mostly.”

“You are awful,” the Angel said fondly.

“Good. Don’t forget it.”

He let go and picked up Aziraphale’s phone. “Here, let’s just play with it for a bit. Maybe we can find a way to get you to like it.” He slid his thin fingertip around the screen.

“I am never going to be able to…”

“Amazon,” He handed the phone back. “They have just about every book you could imagine. Just touch this part,” he indicated, “and the keyboard will pop up and you can type in whatever you want to look for. Then touch the little magnifying glass.”

“Did I not hear though, that this Amazon was displacing independent bookshops?” he said, turning as Crowley walked past him, wandering over to the couch he had more or less made his own.

“Oh Antichrist, that was ages ago. Way past that. Walmart of the internet now. Don’t worry.”

He looked skeptical but did as he was told. After a few aggravating bumps to the screen, he set the phone down and touch-typed his way through. “How do I capitalize?”

“It really doesn’t matter,” Crowley said, but showed him anyhow. Once the results popped up, they perused the listings together, and Crowley showed him how a simple brush of the fingertip sent the whole screen flying upwards. “It’s called scrolling.”

“Really now?”

“Just mess with it a bit.”

Aziraphale was far from captivated by what he was looking at. Everything was so small and crowded. He tentatively pressed his finger to the screen and swiped it upwards. The display reacted and raced upwards.

“And people actually like this device? Hard to imagine.”

“Oh they love them. You have no idea.”

“I certainly do not.”

“What did you search for? What did you type in?”

“'John D. Maccerone’, second Earl of Salden. He published a version of Edlwitche’s Fourth Century Bible. I’ve only ever seen the second printing which removed almost all of the errors.”

“Anything come up?”

Aziraphale looked down at the screen and was taken aback. “Why look!” He read the blurb out loud. “Eldwitche’s Fourth Century Bible compendium. This publication contains all the previously regarded “first folios” of the long-lost version of the seminal religious book. Complied in 1844 by John D Maccerone, it is considered the definitive exploration of the missing and mishandled books.”

“You want it?” Crowley asked.

“Well of course I want it.”

“So buy it.”

“I’ve been trying to for over 400 years you old silly.”

Crowley groaned and pointed, “see what that button says? You tap it and I’ll show you how to buy it.”

“I can buy John D. Maccerone books with this?”

“You can buy a 5-gallon bucket of macaroni and cheese if you’d like.”*

Aziraphale set the phone down for a moment and opened a tin of biscuits he kept nearby for just such emergencies. “This is a bit overwhelming.”

Crowley picked up the discarded phone and began tapping at it. “Remember that time in _Saint-Germain-en-Laye_?”

Aziraphale felt his face brighten. “The church and the sour grapes, of course I remember!” He sat back a moment, munching thoughtfully. “Was that.. that wasn’t…”

“Think so,” Crowley nodded, his eyes focused on the phone.

“That was the first time we tried doing each other’s jobs, if I recall.”

“Well, close to it yeah, but I don’t think you really considered it a job back then. It was quite an ordeal to get you to agree to it.”

The process of reminiscing was not one that was new to them, but the act of remembering things warmly, simply for the fact of remembering, was. Nostalgia is not inbuilt in angels. A bit over the top really, when you had six millennia of memories to tap into. “Let me see now. I was to appear to the local pastor and inspire him to build the church.”

“And I was there to wither the vineyards of a certain family, send them spiraling into misery and provoking them to a life of crime.”

“Yes! Oh my, and instead you tempted me to partake of some of that wine and convinced me that in the long run, it really would be more of a blessing if I inspired the family start a boisterous business as opposed to entering the criminal underworld.”

“I didn’t tempt you!” Crowley looked up. He always was so sensitive about that word, but Aziraphale knew it was true. “You went into that knowing full well how good that wine would be!”

“You didn’t?”

“No of course not! I never.” He leaned over and plucked a biscuit from the tin. “Here, try one of these.” 

Aziraphale held his hand out and Crowley placed the sweet very purposefully in the very divot in the center of his palm. “_Nuts lie in thy path for stones, And thy feast-day macaroons turn to daily rations._”**

Aziraphale took the biscuit and bit into it, reflecting on the recitation. “Browning.” He nibbled daintily around the edge. “Mmmm. Well, anyways. Why do you bring it up?”

Crowley spun the phone around. “Let’s go back.”

Aziraphale scrutinized the screen. “What about my Bible compendium?”

“Your book is on its way.” He pointed. “What do you think?”

On the small screen there was a map of the France. “Well surely! I haven’t been there in ages.” 

“Alright. Bought you a book. Decided on a trip. You ready to practice calling me on this?”

\---

* [92 SERVINGS.](https://www.amazon.com/Augason-Farms-Dinner-Emergency-Supply/dp/B00GDGGR4S/ref=sr_1_2?dchild=1&keywords=lunch+and+dinner+emergency+food+supply&qid=1584229143&sr=8-2)

** [Crowley can be a right bastard as well. ](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43726/to-flush-my-dog)


	7. Fly Me To The Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do This In Your Style (DTIYS) Gomens Party House FEBRUARY PROMPT:  
take two, action  
(based on this: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22729033 )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the 220th anniversary of the bookshop, Crowley broods.

Crowley was in a Mood. It wasn’t necessarily a bad Mood or a good Mood he was just… Moody. Usually what that meant was he was thinking of Things. Tonight, and for the past year of nights he’d been thinking about flying. He used to love flying. No. Check that. He was pretty sure he still loved flying, he just hadn't done it in so long, which brought about the Mood. 

First of all, why fly in the first place? The wings were sort of a decoration anyways, in that he could fly / float / stick to the ceiling, or bully off to alpha centauri with nary a feathered flap. But he liked his wings. He was hellishly proud of them actually. (Pride being the deadliest of the '7 deadliest', he tried to be prideful as much as possible.) And he had absolutely no problem freeing them from their other-worldly plane to enjoy them while cruising through the dark.

So that was the first note. He remembered when he stopped flying completely at the advent of modern air travel, but had actively cut way back earlier, when outdoor lighting became a thing. Before then, he mused absently, he used to spend a lot of time flying. It was one of the most enjoyable ways to travel, first of all. From Greece to Egypt in less than an hour.

Then, there were the birds. His body felt odd at the thought. His eyes feeling wet and tight. What a strange reaction. He realized he missed the birds. What fun little creatures many of them. What right assholes a lot of them. He recognized the shared handiwork ye olde Creator of All put into both, and he’d actually learned quite a few techniques by flying alongside the shrikes and the peregrines with their high speed dives.

It was from the chickens he learned how to brood. Crowley does a lot of brooding. It's not like he comes up with these great plans off the cuff. They take time. And thought.

He put a lot of that thought, for example, back in the day, into how to help Aziraphale finally celebrate the opening of his bookshop. So much so that he ended up creating a box of chocolates before the confection was yet invented. 

Oopsies.

So. 

He was thinking too much. And he missed the birds. And flying. 

“ANGEL!”

He whapped the door open with such force he had to use a minor miracle to keep the glass from breaking. Aziraphale sat at his desk, reading, and was not in the least bit agitated by the demon’s brash entrance. Would’ve been a different story if I’d broken the window, Crowley thought absently.

“Yes dear, what is it?”

“You know what it is, for hell’s sake.”

“I swear I don’t.”

He conjured a bouquet of flowers from behind his back – daffodils that he’d coaxed into February bloom – and handed them over forcefully. 

“Happy anniversary.”

Aziraphale started to speak, but his mouth had simply fallen open and no words were forthcoming. Eventually he took the flowers admiringly and his jaw clacked shut. “Er um. Yes? Is it? I seem to have forgotten.”

Crowley huffed. “1800. A cold day, yes? Recall?”

Aziraphale set down his book and held the bouquet with both hands. “My word. Really? You jest.”

Crowley shook his head once. “I have a proposition.”

For the second time in as many minutes, he’d shocked the angel into an open-mouthed gawk. Which he quickly recovered from.

“Oh?”

Crowley swooped down to kneel next to the desk where Aziraphale sat. The angel’s eyes grew wide. 

“Fly with me.”

“Whhh…what?” he stammered. 

“I’ve been thinking….”

“… a dangerous pastime.”

“Yes. Well. Agreed. But I am thinking… I need to get away. From ehm.” He made a wild gesture downwards. “The floor. Ground. Y’know? 

Aziraphale nodded, but his face betrayed the fact that no in fact, he did not. 

Crowley stood, and in doing so, snapped a miracle vase for the flowers and took both of Aziraphale’s hands in his. 

“Would you?”

“Wha.. would… would I fly with you?” Crowley grinned and nodded. Aziraphale’s face followed his lead. “I think… yes… well, yes! Let’s!”

“Tonight,” breathed Crowley. “mmmm. Can you come to Mayfair?”

“Surely.” 

Crowley began backing out the door. “There will be chocolates.”


	8. Red Touch Yellow...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a certain angel asks about a certain book and Crowley reacts poorly.
> 
> (Written for the St. Patrick's Day 2020 "Great Good Omens Snake Off" started by SummerofSpock.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional - now with Soundcloud Podfic recording recorded by the author (linked at the end)!  
\--

“May I ask you something?”

Crowley’s body turned from the black ribbon of motorway before him with a little more swivel than he’d intended. He was trying to be cool about it, really he was, but for every question Aziraphale ‘asked-to-ask’ in the post-non-Apocalypse, Crowley couldn’t help his immediate reaction, which was to be on guard. What. What? What was going to change now? He tried nonchalantly draping his arm over the steering wheel, but since that eased the Bentley towards the other lane of oncoming traffic and by consequence caused the angel to tense up and clutch the door, he tried again to relax.

“What? Er. Yeah ask away.”

“Why did you have the book? I mean, Agnes Nutter’s book.”

“Ah,” Crowley started, then stopped, looking back out the windscreen. To his left he could tell Aziraphale had loosened his grip on the door handle and had taken to unconsciously smoothing his hands over his lap. “I told you. Souvenir.”

The Bentley never seemed like the best place for conversations like this. Too many distractions. Too hard to pay attention to the words and the gestures and keep the blasted car on the road. Still it seemed, this was where they always had conversations like this.

“A souvenir of what, exactly?”

The time had not yet passed, if Crowley were being completely honest, for him to be 100% okay recalling the bookshop fire. He saw the book before him, its green cover flecked with black papery ash. He felt the odd damp-steam of it in his palm even now, mossy and foreboding, and he slid his hands around the steering wheel attempting to rid himself of the mental hallucination. “Ssssss,” he began. Then swallowed. “Souvenir of you, you idiot.” Furrowing his brow, he glanced sideways. “What’dya think? Why did you ask me that? Now you’ve ruined a good mood.”

“But how did you know that was the book?”

“I didn’t! It was just a book.” He glanced around and sped up. This was not going to be a discussion of the blankety-blank Ineffable Plan again.

Aziraphale fought the g-forces pressing him back into his seat and groaned. “If you knew how long I had been searching for that book, you wouldn’t have just tossed it offhand as you did.”

Ok. That was it.

Screeching tires, the Bentley did a 360 through 6 lanes of traffic, flying down an exit ramp and landing gently and expertly between two “no parking” signs. The demon all but glowed as he spun to face the angel who sat petrified with fingers clamped so hard they all but tore the upholstery.

“Yoou mean to say you’re blaming me for not being able to add that bloody blasted book to your collection?” 

“I…it was very rare,” he stuttered.

“I can’t believe you!”

The car fully stopped, Aziraphale dropped his shoulders and straightened his bow tie. “First edition! Only edition, really. Oh! Look. We’re here.”

Crowley gaped. He couldn’t help it. What in all the supernatural FUCKING hell was Aziraphale playing at. The angel twisted round to look out the window at the Botanical Garden they had set a course for that morning. 

With a flick of his wrist, Crowley locked the doors.

The atmosphere inside the Bentley shimmered like the pavement on the hottest of hot days. Only a vague demonic miracle kept the dashboard from melting into a puddle of goo. Holding up one shaking finger, Crowley growled. “I. Thought. I’d. Lost. You,” he stammered. “And if you think I cared one sod for that book. As if I wouldn’t have traded everything in the whole Whoever-forsaken world to have this maddening argument with you every single wretched day of the rest of my damnable life!”

“Ah!” Aziraphale took Crowley’s pointed finger in both his hands and clutched it tightly, “you were sentimental for me then.”

“You,” Crowley breathed, the scorching heat escaping the interior of the car like the air from a balloon. In its place rushed the humid, fresh scent of wet tropical leaves. And flowers. “You…. you’re a bastard.”

[Sarah Watanabe](https://soundcloud.com/sarah-watanabe-83559997) · [Red Touch Yellow By Suvroc](https://soundcloud.com/sarah-watanabe-83559997/red-touch-yellow)


	9. The stars sing you to sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me a story.”
> 
> “Alright – once upon a time.”
> 
> “Erg.”
> 
> “What is it?”
> 
> “Trite,” Crowley mumbled into a tartan pillow.  
\---  
More unending fluff, this time a silly bedtime story told during a cold and dreary night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "stars," written in 2-20-minute sprints.

A dark and dreary rain pelted the windows of the cottage. Wind whipped the tree branches against the roof and huffed against the shutters. Within, from the depths of many layers of blankets, a chilly demon curled towards the angel reclining at his side.

“Tell me a story.”

“Certainly my dear. What would you like to hear?”

“Mmmmm, one about us. One with us in it.”

They were lying in bed, and Aziraphale carefully marked the page in the book he’d been consuming before setting it aside.

“But you’ve heard all those.”

Crowley squiggled onto his belly under the heavy quilts.

“I know. I lived ‘em too. Doesn’t matter.”

“Alright – once upon a time.”

“Erg.”

“What is it?”

“Trite,” Crowley mumbled into a tartan pillow.

“It’s how every good story starts!”

“Mrph. Beg to differ. What about, ‘it was a dark and stormy night’ or ‘call me Ishmale’”

“Or ‘In the Beginning’?”

“Oh, don’t go there.”

“You asked for this.”

“I know I know, m’kay, go on.”

“Ahem. Once upon a time, on a dark and stormy night, in the beginning, there was a snake.”

“Named Ishmael?”

“Well, yes. Certainly. Let’s say the snake was named Ishmael.”

“Is it me?”

“Are you Ishmael?”

“Dunno. This is a story about us right?”

Aziraphale leaned down to kiss his head. “It is. It is about us.”

“Maybe it’s a disguise. I was in disguise.”

Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s hair and continued. “Now Ishmael the snake was slithering about, just doing snakey things, but little did the creature know, they were being spied upon by another.”

“That was you right?”

“Possibly. Do you want me to ruin the ending?”

“Yes. Always. Ruin away. Tell me it was you.”

Aziraphale smiled and shook his head. “You are incorrigible. Hush now.” He petted his head and continued. “It was an angel, looking down upon the snake.”

“I knew it!”

“Yes yes, very clever one you are. So the angel was watching the snake, because you see, he had spoken to the snake in the past. Had witnessed the creature the snake really was. And he knew, from experience, that the snake did not actually enjoy stormy nights.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “And and so spaketh the angel: Oh excuse me! But would it be helpful if you came up above the clouds for a bit perhaps? The stars are very clear tonight.“

“And so snaketh Ishmael, ‘Oi! Can’t hear you!’”

“Just so. And so the angel lit upon the ground and posed the question again: Pardon me. But perhaps, would you like to see the stars?”

Crowley had by this time burrowed his face into Aziraphale’s flannel-clad side, wriggling his body against him, enveloping Aziraphale’s thigh between his thin knees and tucking his hands tight into his hip. Aziraphale trailed his hand down the back of Crowley’s head to tickle the nape of his neck.

“Well?” Aziraphale asked. “What did the snake say?”

Crowley rolled himself sleepily onto his back and gazed up at his love with soft golden eyes. “I said, ‘that’d be brilliant.’”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and the room darkened, and the bed no longer appeared to be confined within the walls of the cottage. Instead, the ink black depths of night stretched on to infinity, spattered with a dizzying display of stars. Clouds drifted past them, and by some small miracle, it was not cold at that height at all. It was splendid and quiet and warm.

And brilliant.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me about GO on [Tumblr](https://suvroc.tumblr.com/)!!


End file.
